


I’m not afraid of the dagger at my throat (As long as you are holding it)

by merle_p



Category: Firefly
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-10 04:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon gets (bad?) news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’m not afraid of the dagger at my throat (As long as you are holding it)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkhawkhealer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=darkhawkhealer).



> Prompt was: _Firefly, Mal/Simon, gruff comfort_.   
> **Spoilers:** Slight spoilers for _Serenity_.  
>  **Disclaimer:** _Firefly_ belongs to FOX and Joss Whedon.

River’s rage hits Simon in the face with a force that has him stagger backwards. Literally.

His hands are still shaking, hours later, when he finally gets around to clean the cut in his cheek. He honestly thought, after Miranda, that they were done with this kind of outburst, and it’s scary enough to realize he was wrong. 

But he knows exactly what brought on this relapse, and he tells himself that it’s his own fault: River always senses when he’s troubled, or upset, and this time is no different; except that the emotions that she must have felt are so much more violent. 

At least she hasn’t figured out the reason, and Simon feels guilty for lying to her, but there’s no way he can tell her …

“Here, let me do that,” a voice says next to his ear, and Simon flinches. It’s a sign of how far he’s gone that he hasn't even noticed Mal’s approach until the man takes the gauze pad from his trembling fingers. 

Mal’s voice is rough, but his touch is gentle when he carefully dabs the disinfectant into the wound. 

“Is she sleeping?” Simon asks, and tenses at his own voice: he sounds brittle, tired, and utterly defeated.

“Yep,” Mal nods, prodding at the cut with his index finger. “You think that needs stitches?”

“No,” Simon says. “Just leave it. It’ll heal.” He takes the bloody gauze from Mal and doesn’t look at him while he starts to clean up. 

Mal leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, and watches him work.

“Any idea what brought this on?” he finally asks, casually, as if it doesn’t really matter. 

Simon thinks about lying, but he never was good at it, and he doesn’t think he’s got the energy for it right now, anyway. 

“She probably sensed that I was … upset,” he says, still avoiding Mal’s sharp look.

“And why was that?” Mal asks, and Simon pauses in his work to close his eyes for a moment. 

He doesn’t answer Mal’s question, instead hands over the letter he’s been carrying around in his pocket all day, the letter that had waited for him on the planet they just left behind. 

When Mal finally lowers the letter, his expression is unreadable . 

“An assassination?” he asks, and Simon nods.

“It’s all over the cortex,” he says. “They were murdered in their beds.” He laughs hollowly. “They didn’t even sleep in the same bed, can you imagine? They always were like that. It would have been too intimate. My mother used to get furious every time she caught River in my bed. Said it was unnatural. As if I’d …” He breaks off, struggling for air. He’s dimly aware that he’s nearly hysterical. “I always wondered what it would be like to see our parents again, and now they are dead, and the worst thing is … what I’m feeling, it’s not even grief. It’s just anger, I’m just so angry …”

He’s crying now, bitter tears of fury and despair, and Mal hesitates only a moment before he pulls him in, pressing Simon’s head against his broad chest, letting him sob into his shirt.

Mal’s voice is still harsh when he speaks, even if his hands are not. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry that you have to deal with this. I’m sorry your sister is freaking out. But I’m not sorry that they died. And I don’t care if you want to hear it or not, but they deserved worse for what they did to you. What they did to both of you.” 

He cradles Simon’s face in his hands and tilts it up, not letting him avoid his gaze any longer. His expression is sober, but his eyes are burning hot. 

“You imagined what it would be like to see them again,” he says. “I imagined what it would be like to kill them. Imagined how I would kill them with my bare hands. For you.”

His fingers are splayed across Simon’s unharmed cheek, digging into his skin just a little bit too hard. And Simon knows he should be appalled by Mal’s confession, but instead it comforts him in a way he wouldn’t have thought possible only a day before.

The cut in his cheek will probably scar, turn into a reminder how his father still manages to hurt him even after his death, but for now, he just wants more of this violent comfort, this unpolished love.

“Take me to bed,” he says hoarsely.

And Mal kisses him and nods.


End file.
